We found a funky neighborhood we liked in West Palm Beach, just a couple of blocks from the Intracoastal Waterway, and soon stumbled upon a squat white bungalow with a front yard consisting entirely of weeds. It was the first house in the block off the main drag, Dixie Highway, and the most modest, too. In front of it was a sign that read FOR RENT.
As moving day neared, we discussed how we would break the news to our parents. Jenny was concerned that her mother and father would react badly. I, on the other hand, insisted to Jenny that my parents would have no problems at all. After all, they adored Jenny and knew how much we loved each other. They just wanted us to be happy, right? And this move was making us more than happy; we were giddy with excitement. So much so that we talked the landlord into giving us the key early so we could strip and polish the hardwood floors.
“I don’t know, John,” Jenny said. “Your parents are pretty conservative.”
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“They’ll be fine,” I assured her. “You just worry about your folks.”
But secretly, deep inside, I was a nervous puddle. I was thirty years old and embarrassed to admit it but terrified to tell them something so simple as “Jenny and I have decided to live together.” Part of me knew I was being ridiculous. I was an adult living on my own. What could they do? Encumber my allowance?
Part of me struggled with wave after wave of dread. All my years of filtering the truth, of little deceits and outright lies, made it all the worse. With my help, they had allowed themselves to be deluded.
The previous Sunday, Mom and Dad had called for their weekly chat, only earlier than normal. Jenny had slept over, and we were just making coffee. As she always did, Mom asked me if I had gone to Mass yet that morning. No, I said, not yet. She then asked if I planned to see Jenny later in the day.
“Actually, I’m heading over to her place right after Mass,” I said, managing to work two lies into one sentence. Jenny pretended not to overhear, and I knew she was embarrassed for me, a thirty-year-old still lying to his mother. I considered myself moral, ethical, even a little boring, with nothing to be ashamed of. Yet I dreaded the news I had to break to them, and my biggest fear was that when I did, Mom and Dad would blame Jenny. “He was such a good Catholic boy until he met . . . that woman!”
On the morning of our move, I pulled the rental truck up to Jenny’s apartment, but before we began loading she called her parents. When she hung up a few minutes later, she said, “Wow, that was easier than I thought it would be. They really sounded pleased for us. My dad said his only regret was that he couldn’t be here to help us move.”
“He said that?”
“Yep. ‘I just wish I could be there to help you move.’ ”
“Great,” I said. “One down, one to go. My parents will be a breeze.”
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I put off calling them until all our possessions were in the moving van ready to be delivered to our new house. I wanted the move to be past the point of no return before breaking it to them.
I dialed their number and Mom picked up.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “Can you get Dad on the other line? I have some news to share with you both.”
A few seconds later she was back with Dad. We made small talk for a minute and then Dad asked, “So what’s this big news Mother tells me you have?”
“Well,” I said. “Are you sitting down?” A nervous laugh escaped my lips. I knew they would have reservations, but I hoped they could, if not embrace, at least respect our decision. I wanted to believe they’d react as I knew they would if I announced we were engaged to be married. In my mind, this day was tantamount to that, the first step in our shared life together.
“Jenny and I have decided to move in together,” I said.
Long pause, then Dad’s voice: “I’m sorry? You what?”
“Decided to move in together.”
Silence.
“We found a cute little house, and it seemed crazy paying two rents, and it’s really convenient to both our offices. Right down by the water. And . . . we’re moving in together.”
Several seconds passed. I asked: “Are you still there?”
“We’re here,” Dad said.
“Today, actually. We’re moving today. I have the truck loaded and ready to go.”
Mom spoke next, and once she started there was no stopping her. “This is a big mistake—John, don’t do this—do you hear me? Don’t do it. Do you know how big a mistake this is? You’ll be tarnishing your relationship forever. You don’t want to do this—
you can never take it back—you’ll always regret it.” Her words sprayed out like machine-gun fire.
Then Dad brought out the howitzers: “Sure, it’s fine for you.
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It’s fine for the man. But what about Jenny? What about the woman? What’s that tell the world about her and your respect for her? Have you thought about her reputation? What happens to her when you get tired of this?” His message was clear: from this point forward she would be a marked woman—stained, used, unsuitable for marriage.
“Dad,” I said, an edge of pleading in my voice, “that’s so old-fashioned. Things have changed. People don’t think that way anymore.”
“Morals don’t go in and out of style,” he snapped. “That’s what’s wrong with this age, the moral relativism. ‘If it feels good, do it.’ Well, you know what? Right and wrong are right and wrong.
They don’t change. And living together out of wedlock is wrong.
It’s plain wrong.”
Then he got to his main point. “You’ll be living in a state of sin.
Is that what you want? To live with the pall of sin over you?”
Mom broke in: “This will ruin the marriage. The Lord won’t bless this union. You’re dooming your future.” She begged me to reconsider.
“Mom, c’mon,” I pleaded.
“Your marriage will be damned before it ever starts,” she said.
“Ma . . .”
“Have you thought about pregnancy? About birth control?
What if Jenny gets pregnant? What then? Do you want a baby born out of wedlock? That child will carry this shame for his entire life. Is that what you want?”
My God, I thought. They really still believe I’m a virgin. I’m thirty years old and they’re afraid I’ll accidentally get Jenny knocked up. They think Jenny and I have never had sex. Unbelievable. How were they able to delude themselves for so long? Until that moment, I never quite believed they had bought into all my deceit. Mom’s voice rattled on like a Gatling gun, laying down a
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withering cross fire of recrimination. She worked every angle to dissuade me. I was barely hearing her words. Finally I shouted over her.
“Stop! Look, the moving truck is in the driveway. Our apartments are both empty. Everything’s in the truck. We’re not reconsidering. It’s too late. This is happening.”
A long, long silence. Then Dad’s voice: “You understand our position and I think we understand yours. We should let you go now.” In the background, I could tell Mom was crying.
“Okay, then,” I said.
“John?” Dad said. A long silence filled the phone line. “John, you will always be our son.”
“I know, Dad,” I said and hung up.
“Well, that went well,” I said, and Jenny slipped her arms around me from behind and said, “I could tell.”
“Let’s not let it ruin the day,” I said. “We’re moving in together!” I kissed her on the lips, then gave her a slap on the backside and said, “We’ve got work to do.”
As we carried our combined furnishings and possessions into our new rental house, I tried hard to seal away the phone call. But the more I tried, the more it filled my head. The whole thing was really my fault, I told myself. Had I been more honest and up-front with them all along, starting years earlier, my announceme
nt would not have hit them so hard. Part of me felt pain for disappointing them; part of me, self-loathing for lacking the character to stand tall and be myself around them; part of me, anger at them for being so rigid. I continued to worry about Jenny and what this incident would do to her relationship with my parents. How could she not harbor resentment toward them now? They made it clear what they thought of our arrangement, and by extension what they thought of us. If I was the sinner, what did that make her?
We were crazy about our two-bedroom house with the weedy
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yard and drippy faucets. There were orange and avocado trees out back loaded with fruit and a little patio where we could sit beneath the palms with our coffee and newspapers in the morning. There was a washer with a clothesline instead of a dryer, which we found impossibly romantic. Off the laundry was a one-car garage Jenny would spend an entire weekend repainting to convert into a studio for me. There was even a fireplace to take the chill off winter nights. We were like kids with a new toy, and we raced from one room to the next, then made the circuit all over again.
And yet, a quiet pall hung over the day. As we carried in the last boxes, mingling our two lives at last into one, an image flashed before my eyes. An image of my parents. They were sitting together in the living room, holding their rosaries, having just prayed for my soul. They were big on praying for lost souls.
Mom was weeping and red-eyed, Dad shaking his head, deep worry on his face. Both of them were wondering aloud where they had gone wrong.
Chapter 20
o
One week into our new life together, a letter arrived. I recognized the handwriting right away as belonging to Mom. I had not spoken with her or Dad since moving
day. Now that she’d had time to calm down, maybe she was seeing things more clearly. Maybe she was writing to apologize. I tore open the envelope.
“Dear John,” her letter opened, “I write this with a heavy heart.” It was not the opening I had hoped for, and I could feel my chest tighten. “I have been numb since our telephone conversation. Strange that so few words could affect one so much. I just realized that this is the very first time I have had to shed tears over you. For thirty years you have given us nothing but joy and pride.
I don’t need to say how disappointed both Dad and I are at your decision. Somehow we thought we had instilled higher ethics and morals in you. We didn’t think we had to preach; we thought we were teaching you by example.” And then the razor-edged saber to the heart: “I’m sorry I have failed you.”
Just like in the phone conversation with me, her words poured
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out in bursts: “Honestly, I can’t understand what your problem is . . . If you love someone enough to sleep with them, it just seems to me that you would want to have your relationship blessed . . .
Without doubt, this is the biggest decision you have had to make; I hope you are prepared to meet the responsibilities that go with it . . . Have you thought of the children that could result? Are you ready to cope with birth control and abortion?”
The problem, she noted, was that we had tried to make this important life decision on our own without spiritual guidance.
“This is the time for both of you to turn to prayer. God is the only one who knows what the future holds. It is He, and He alone, who can guide you during this most important time of your lives.
Don’t be so proud as to think you can make your own decisions without His help . . . We were made to love and serve God. He is our Creator. We can’t say we believe this and yet go about doing what He has asked us not to do. I am asking you to please take the time to converse with God. Tell Him how you feel, what your doubts are, your fears. Then listen! Think about making a retreat. Talk to a priest. Explore every avenue. It is your life—your future happiness.”
She concluded this way: “We have loved you for the past thirty years and we are not about to stop now. No matter what your decision. Parents don’t stop loving just because they are disappointed in their children. Of course, it would be much nicer loving with joy in our hearts rather than being laden with this heavy burden. But you are a man; only you can make the final decision.
I think we know you well enough that you will do what you feel is right in your heart. But sometimes we are deceived by our own desires, so try to think straight . . . We will keep both of you in our prayers. We want you to find complete happiness—not just for a few months but for a lifetime.”
The letter, three pages single-spaced, was classic Mom, a combination of heartfelt concern and overwrought emotions
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with a few well-aimed jabs of Catholic guilt skillfully slipped in.
Of course, it would be much nicer loving with joy in our hearts rather than being laden with this heavy burden . . . When she felt strongly about something, she was incapable of self-censoring. When it came to influencing her children’s lives, she had no on-off switch. It all came pouring out. What outsiders might see as meddling, I saw in a more positive light: a well-intentioned, if misguided and somewhat heavy-handed, effort to steer her brood down the right path.
I assumed Jenny would see it in the same light, which prompted me to make what in retrospect was one of the bigger mistakes of my life: I showed her the letter.
I did so without thinking. I did so assuming she would find it an amusing window into my mother’s personality: the tenacious Little Napoleon in prime fighting form, grasping at every weapon in her arsenal to win this battle for her son’s soul. I knew the letter was fueled by the best of intentions, but that did not soften my mother’s judgmental tone. Before Jenny even said a word, I knew what a mistake I had made. I could see it in her face, at once wounded and angry.
“It’s just my mom being my mom,” I said, wishing I could push back the clock three minutes and bury the letter forever.
“What we share is beautiful, but to her it’s just dirty. Dirty and wrong,” Jenny said.
“Oh, c’mon,” I pleaded. “She’s just upset. It’s a Catholic mother thing. They all do it. Don’t take it personally.”
A few days later, another letter arrived, this one bearing the crisp draftsman’s lettering of my father.
“Dear John,” it began. “By this time you have received Mother’s letter. I want to add a few of my personal thoughts while the iron is hot. Mother did enough ‘preaching’ for both of us so all I want to say is that I agree with and support all she said. One of our big worries is that this may be the first step in your drifting
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away from the Church and losing your faith—so keep praying and don’t stop going to Mass on Sunday. Your faith is precious.
Please understand that we are concerned so much because we want only the best of everything for you. Now that we have said all this, we will not bring it up again. You are a grown man and it is your life.”
He closed the letter: “One last thought, John. Don’t do, or not do, anything because you think it is what we want. That would be a mistake. Do what you know is best for you. Whatever your decision, Mother and I will always stand by you and be your loving and caring parents. Give our love to Jenny. None of this has changed our feelings of affection toward her.”
He signed it, “Sincerely, Dad.”
I returned the letter to its envelope and slipped it into the bottom of my sock drawer, beside Mom’s. Even though his words were more conciliatory than Mom’s, they still carried the unmis-takable mark of disapproval. I decided it would be best not to show his letter to Jenny. My life of filtering and parsing the truth was entering a new chapter. No longer did I need only to protect my parents from my own reality; now I had to shelter my girlfriend from theirs, as well.
That evening at dinner, I said, “I heard from my dad today.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jenny said.
“He sent their love to you, and said none of this has chang
ed how they feel about you.”
“Oh, I’m sure it hasn’t,” she said.
“Sarcasm duly noted,” I replied.
It was several weeks before I responded to either letter. I kept it breezy, telling them about work and our neighborhood and the routine we had fallen into. But I did want them to know that their doom-and-gloom predictions were not coming true.
“After two months Jenny and I are very happy in our new home,”
I wrote. “We both agree we are the most content we’ve ever
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been. The strain of constantly commuting was proving to be a real test of our relationship. It was not a healthy way to live, and it was not a smart way to try to maintain a vital relationship. I know you disapprove of our decision, and maybe in a perfect world where we weren’t thrown into a strange, sometimes hostile, culture hundreds of miles from our family and friends, things would have been different. But so far we have no regrets.”
We had no regrets at all. We bought bikes and took long rides around Palm Beach. We strolled along the Intracoastal Waterway most evenings and spent weekends in Key West and Sanibel.
We sipped café cubanos in Little Havana and began every morning by squeezing fresh orange juice from our tree. We planted tomatoes on our patio and coaxed grass to grow in the weedy front yard.
The night before Jenny’s birthday, I stayed up late making a homemade card, which I put on the bedstand for her to find when she awoke. Inside it read:
He was an unreformed rock-and-roll animal
In love with a lanky gorgeous blonde
Who had wit, style and grace.
She even laughed at his bad jokes
And made him feel more handsome than he really was.
He never much said it, being the (not so) strong, silent type, but he knew he was the luckiest guy around.
They lived happily ever after.
The End.
Our lives felt full, complete, contented, despite my parents’
disapproval and the strain it had caused. Eleven months after moving in together, I took Jenny to pick out a new stereo to replace the assemblage of college-vintage components we had each brought into the relationship. It sounded magnificent and was by